The Ringmaster's Daughter: A beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 love story

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘OK. In that case, Jean is right – we need animals,’ Michel said.

  ‘Cannot our friends at the Cirque d’Hiver perhaps help us?’ Henri asked.

  ‘Hardly friends. Werner and that ringmaster have never seen eye to eye,’ said Jean.

  ‘I will speak with him.’

  ‘And what will you say? “Can we have your wild animals and a trainer or two for an evening?”’

  ‘I won’t have to talk. Other things speak clearly, my dear Jean.’

  ‘Money!’ Bertrand said, as if he had figured out a riddle.

  ‘We also need men to help with the Big Top. We need torches and food, stalls, more tents.’

  ‘More men I can find you – there are many in need of a few francs in town. Supplies… well, I suppose I must do some more talking with other friends. Jean, I will come with you to the city. We shall go now, yes?’

  Bertrand stood. ‘I will drive you.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Your Citroën – I am surprised it got you here, if I am honest. We can pick up my car for the journey back.’ Henri smirked.

  They left quickly, and Madame Rosie made Michel coffee as he sketched out a plan for their performance, losing himself in the colours, the music, the magic that would come back… if only for one night.

  Fourteen

  Brigadeführer Diederich Wolff

  Brigadeführer Diederich Wolff eyed Michel from under heavy lids. ‘What is the theme of the evening?’ he asked.

  Henri looked to Michel and smiled, as if willing him to answer. ‘Theme?’ Michel asked.

  ‘You know – a theme. My wife needs a theme.’

  ‘What does your wife like?’ Henri asked.

  Wolff heaved himself up from the desk chair in his study and went to pick up a small cigar box from the bookcase, then sat back down, his weight making the chair creak, his stomach resting on his thighs.

  ‘What do women like?’ He clipped the end of the fat brown cheroot.

  ‘Dancing?’ Michel ventured.

  The brigadeführer nodded. ‘When she was a girl – I mean, of course, younger than she is now,’ he corrected himself, ‘she read books about Mexico, about the Maya people. Do you know them?’

  Michel shook his head. Does he mean personally?

  ‘Black magic,’ Henri said.

  ‘Indeed. Bloody people, they were. Sacrifices of their own children, bloodletting… my dear wife Helga would tell me these gory stories in the evenings after dinner. Can you imagine? This pretty creature telling me about beheadings and stabbings and all sorts of things that would make most women faint. I believe that I fell in love with her when she told me these stories – I realised she was a woman like no other.’

  There was a pause as Wolff lit his cigar and sucked on it until the end glowed red. Michel looked at the portrait of Helga above Wolff’s head. From a distance, she looked quite ordinary – slim, pretty, with her hair pulled up in a chignon. But as he looked closer, he saw that her smile was cunning, her eyes alert. She has the correct surname, he thought.

  ‘Anyway. That’s what she likes,’ Wolff said behind a cloud of his own smoke.

  ‘Hanal Pixán – the Day of the Dead!’ Henri clapped his hands together at his genius. ‘I read they believe that the dead come back to life and visit their families. They feed them to try and protect their children from evil spirits. It can be an evening of ghosts and spirits and the colours of the Maya.’

  ‘I believe she will like that.’ Wolff leaned forward. ‘Good. Make it happen. Five days.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Brigadeführer.’ Henri stood. Michel followed suit.

  ‘We look forward to seeing you and your wife in five days’ time,’ Henri added politely.

  ‘And the townspeople.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The townspeople. They have been given permission to attend. And of course, some of my comrades.’

  ‘Indeed, of course! The more the merrier, as they say.’ Henri smiled, and they left the five-storey house and headed for the town square.

  ‘The whole town,’ Michel said.

  ‘It will be magnificent, Michel! A full house! Can you imagine?’

  ‘I’m ringmaster…’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘And what a wonderful way to start your new job! A full house, people applauding. Oh, how I wish I were in your shoes.’

  Michel was not sure whether Henri was joking or not.

  The following two days passed in a blur; men appeared as if from nowhere and staked the Big Top, using the horses to drag and pull at the large ropes, shouting encouragement when they wanted to stop. Jean and Serge made two visits to the city and brought back with them a new troupe, all of them nervous about having to perform for Germans. Henri took care of the money, and Hugo got his hands on enough ingredients to refill his stock of génépy, which kept them mellow.

  ‘It’s really happening!’ Frieda was at Michel’s side, her face full of excitement. ‘I love this part – when everyone is working together, creating something from nothing.’

  ‘I wish I could enjoy it.’ Michel yawned a little.

  ‘You’ve barely slept. You need to rest.’ She kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘How is Werner?’ he asked.

  ‘He is a little brighter. The doctor says he is recovering, but it will take time.’

  ‘I’ve hardly had a chance to see him, with all this going on.’

  ‘Go now; just sit with him and talk. It will give you a chance to rest, and he’d love to know how it is all coming together.’

  He kissed her forehead then stroked her hair. ‘I’ll go now. If anyone wants me, tell them I have disappeared.’ He walked slowly away from the hustle of the camp, his legs weighted with tiredness, his mind with nerves.

  Werner was sitting up in bed when Michel entered the quiet bedroom, a thick flurry of pillows propping him up, a book on his lap.

  ‘Michel.’ Werner looked to him.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ Michel glanced at the book, unopened.

  ‘Not at all – please.’

  Michel sat on the chair next to his bed, the cushion still warm under his backside.

  ‘You just missed your friend Bertrand. A nice man – full of tales.’

  ‘He has a fair few stories, I’ll grant him that.’

  ‘Henri gave me this.’ Werner held up the blue leather-bound book. ‘Poetry, of all things.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘I cannot concentrate.’ Werner looked to the window as if expecting something.

  ‘It’s going well – the preparations.’

  Werner only nodded.

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘What?’ Werner turned to him.

  ‘The circus, the show? I wish you could be the ringmaster.’

  Werner started at him for a moment or two, and Michel wondered if he was angry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Michel said, unsure exactly what he was sorry for.

  ‘Bertrand spoke of his wife when he was here.’

  ‘She was a good woman.’

  Werner nodded. ‘It made me think of Éva.’

  ‘You miss her.’

  ‘More than you can imagine. I kept myself busy all those years after she left, and then when Frieda came it was almost like a part of Éva came back to me. It made me happy, but sad at the same time. She looks so much like her.’ Werner smiled. ‘Sometimes when she performs, I think it is Éva up there, ready to tumble to earth and come back to me. Sounds foolish, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ve kept her safe all these years – Frieda. But she’s a woman now, isn’t she?’ Werner shook his head as if he had just realised. ‘A woman. Almost twenty-one. Sometimes she acts like a forty-year-old, you know – bossy!’

  ‘I wonder where she gets that from?’ Michel laughed.

  ‘Indeed! Ah, to be the boss means to be bossy, Michel. Are you making sure you are bossing them about out there? You need to keep a tight leash on them, you know?
Hugo will sneak away and drink if you let him. And the triplets, they seem docile enough, but they get distracted easily. They always reminded me of puppies – how they see a stick or a fly buzzing in the air and they cannot contain themselves. They’re just like that. Keep an eye on them.’

  Michel nodded and tried to contain a yawn.

  ‘Tired already?’ Werner chuckled. ‘You just wait. This is only, what – day two? When are you rehearsing?’

  ‘Tonight. We’re just waiting for the Big Top to be anchored a bit better – seems a new tear appeared at one of the seams.’

  ‘Get them to go through it at least twice tonight,’ Werner warned. ‘The first time will be like trying to herd sheep. The second will give you a better clue where you are and what needs to be done.’

  Werner suddenly groaned a little and Michel stood. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘It’s just the stitches. Your handiwork, whilst it saved my life, has tightened the skin. Feels as though I am going to burst out of them.’

  Michel plumped the pillow behind his head and helped Werner to sit up a bit more.

  ‘I’d better get back to them,’ Michel said.

  ‘Yes. You’d better. They’ll be running amok down there.’

  ‘You sure I can’t get you anything?’ Michel asked.

  ‘No. I’m fine. Got this poetry to read, a nap to take.’

  Michel left Werner and just before he closed the door, he saw him staring out of the window once more, the book still unopened on his lap.

  When Michel came upon the field, tents were springing up, a stern Frieda, hands on hips, directing the workers. As he approached, he heard the honk of a truck’s horn behind him, followed by the trumpeting of an elephant.

  Two trucks came closer, the elephant’s trunk sneaking through the latticed wood of the first to sniff out her new environment. The second truck was quieter. A man jumped down, his arm in a sling, a cheroot between his teeth.

  ‘Mind,’ he told the crowd, ‘he’s in a bad mood today,’ and nodded at his arm.

  ‘You’re here! Voilà, Michel! Your animals.’ Henri appeared from his car, trailing behind the entourage.

  ‘Two of them,’ the injured man said.

  ‘Georges is an ill-tempered beast,’ Henri said.

  ‘Georges is the one in the truck, I assume?’ Michel said.

  ‘Oh, heavens no! That’s Bastien the lion. Georges is his trainer. He’s the one you must watch out for.’

  ‘Victor says you owe him double,’ Georges told Henri. ‘He says you can afford it.’

  Henri’s smile set in place. ‘We will talk later.’

  ‘I’m just the messenger. Where do you want us to set up?’

  Michel pointed towards the rear of the tent.

  ‘Stephanie, my daughter, deals with Camille. That’s the elephant. So, don’t get any ideas that anyone but her will be riding her. My daughter’s a star.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Henri asked.

  ‘Asleep in the cab. She likes her sleep too, so don’t annoy her if she’s sleeping. She’s worse than me.’

  The troupe nodded, yet none of them moved, each wanting to get a look at Camille the elephant.

  ‘You’ll see her later.’ Georges climbed back into the first truck and the driver took them around the back of the tent to set up.

  By late afternoon, most of the work on the tents had ceased and Michel brought the performers into the Big Top for their first run-through. They followed him into the ring, heaped with sand. Workers were busy raking it flat whilst the trapeze and nets were being tested above. Hammering echoed around them as the men finished erecting the tiered stands, the highest seats reaching to the canopied roof.

  ‘We have only three days to get this right,’ Michel told them. ‘I know it isn’t long, but it can be done. We just have to work hard.’

  Michel heard someone giggle and he swallowed, his mouth dry. ‘I have given you all a running order. Make sure you read it. Your costumes are being completed as we speak by Madame Rosie and Bertrand, who has proven adept at sewing.’ Michel paused and allowed a moment for smiles all round. ‘After our first run-through now, we break, you eat and see Rosie about your costumes, then we do another run-through tonight.

  ‘We will start with all of the troupe entering to the music of the band. I want it dark; one by one, the spotlight will pick out the performers. As the music swells, more lights will shed a glow on our dancers. Then, all the lights come on and the troupe have disappeared, leaving the clowns in the centre, dressed in red suits and black shirts, your faces painted as skeletons.’

  ‘Like actual skeletons, so we look dead?’ a small boy asked.

  ‘Speak to Hugo. He will explain,’ Michel commanded, and he saw Frieda smile at that.

  ‘After the clowns, we have our two fire eaters, one either side of Serge. Then we move to our acrobats – triplets, that’s you. Then the contortionists, then our animal show. We will finish with the trapeze and the tightrope walkers. Our finale is everyone working at once, the music tense, until – boom – it goes pitch black!’

  ‘And then?’ someone asked.

  ‘That’s the end, stupid,’ someone else retorted.

  ‘So, it ends in blackness?’

  ‘Yes, because the theme is death.’

  ‘Nice theme. And I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Please! Listen. Let’s begin now – just one after the other, a glimpse at the routines you have ready.’

  A group of slim young men and women began with a ballet routine, soft and flowing, before moving into a stilted sequence, their bodies stiffening as if growing old.

  ‘Good, good,’ Michel said and clapped.

  Next, Hugo and two small boys walked to the centre of the ring, the trio juggling brightly coloured balls.

  ‘Can we get these painted white?’ Michel asked them. ‘Then add some faces in black paint as if you are juggling skulls.’

  ‘Seems stupid to me,’ a chatty lad said. ‘Who’d want to see someone juggle skulls?’

  ‘Please – get it done. Your usual tricks, Hugo, need to be darker. So no red nose, no pulling silk handkerchiefs from your sleeves.’

  ‘What am I meant to do then?’ Hugo chewed on his nail.

  ‘No need to worry. Use your imagination. What would a clown do if it came back from the dead for just one day?’

  ‘Sounds like the stuff of nightmares,’ someone muttered from behind Michel.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hugo cast around. ‘Maybe he’d walk stiffer, you know, fall over things? Maybe his leg would come off and the others would have to try and put it back on?’

  ‘Good! Yes, a living-corpse clown! Brilliant – work on it.’

  Hugo grinned and blushed a little.

  ‘Next up, Serge – where is he?’ Michel looked around.

  ‘Practising fire eating outside. One of the others nearly burned the tent down before – see that black singe over there?’ Jean muttered.

  ‘Well – then we have the triplets.’

  The trio walked lethargically around the ring, backflipping now and again.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Michel stopped them.

  ‘It’s not the same,’ Eliáš said. ‘We can’t do it without Odélie.’

  ‘You can, and you will,’ Michel said.

  ‘I’ll help.’ Frieda came to their aid. ‘We need Claudette – that will help. Let’s go and get her ready for the next rehearsal, eh? That way you’ll feel a bit better?’

  The triplets followed her, and Michel gave her a grateful nod.

  ‘OK, so…’ Michel looked down at his sheet of paper. ‘Contortionists? Where are they?’

  ‘Over there.’ Jean pointed to three boxes in the middle of the ring.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Inside.’ Jean smiled for the first time in days. He walked over to the boxes and lifted each lid, then tipped them gently onto their side.

  The troupe could now see the three people inside, their limbs impossibly woven around
their bodies. One by one they escaped from their prisons and began to crawl, spider-like, their knees and elbows bent at strange angles. Then they transformed themselves once more, this time into balls that rolled around the ring before they popped their heads out and began to crawl again.

  ‘Brilliant! Excellent!’ Michel clapped.

  ‘There’s just Bastien and Camille now,’ Jean said. ‘But they won’t be ready until later.’

  ‘Thank you, Jean. We will run through the whole thing at seven p.m. sharp.’

  The troupe groaned.

  ‘I know it feels rushed, but the more we practise the easier it will become. You will then break for one hour and we’ll do another run-through, as this was a little thin. Tomorrow I want you here at six in the morning. Final costume fitting in the afternoon. Full run-through, make-up, band, lights. Then two more full run-throughs on our final day. You’ll have one night of rest, and then we need to be up and running by six p.m.’

  ‘I thought we were just working for the show?’ the little boy complained.

  ‘The whole town and the brigadeführer’s guests will be expecting food, drinks, fortune tellers, magicians, clowns, everything, right up until our show. You have been paid for it.’

  ‘Should have asked for more,’ the boy muttered under his breath.

  ‘Right. Back here. Seven o’clock!’ Michel left, holding the running order notes in his hand, feeling the sweat dripping down his back.

  ‘You did beautifully.’ Frieda caught up with him and held his hand.

  ‘I can’t believe I did it.’

  ‘You have found your calling, Michel.’

  He kissed her on the cheek, then whispered, ‘Only if you stay by my side.’

  ‘Always.’

  The following day, Michel sat with Jean drinking coffee as the troupe ate breakfast in the new canteen tent – a new cook and three helpers serving hot porridge and toast.

  ‘How did he do this?’ Michel asked. ‘In just a few days? I’m starting to think that Henri may be a magician.’

  ‘If you have money, you can buy yourself anything – even during these times. That’s Henri’s magic power – money.’